


In which there is a bit of shouting and D'Artagnan learns another lesson

by Nemeris (Eris18)



Series: a scholar and a priest [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis: President of the Porthos fanclub, D'Artagnan needs to learn about honour amongst brotherhood, Episode-related fic, M/M, Spoilers for 1x05: The Homecoming, shouty!Aramis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1229212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eris18/pseuds/Nemeris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis has a few things to say about D'Artagnan questioning Porthos' innocence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which there is a bit of shouting and D'Artagnan learns another lesson

**Author's Note:**

> So I have many many feelings about Aramis and Porthos being, essentially, best friends for life.
> 
> These feelings caused me to write more of this series.
> 
> Beta'd by [Gem](http://cakesandfail.tumblr.com/).

D’Artagnan knew some sort of punishment was coming. He’d doubted Porthos, who was the closest thing in this world that Aramis had to a best friend. He’d _insulted_ his honour.

Aramis wasn’t going to let this go lightly, oh no. And the worst bit was, he wouldn’t even really look at D’Artagnan, so it was going to be bad.

And all D’Artagnan could do was wait. Wait, and be utterly exhausted.

He sloped into his room and flopped onto the bed. He’d known that being a Musketeer would be hands-on and active work, but there sheer amount of action he’d seen in Paris alone was almost enough to make him crave the quiet life of Tarbes again.

Only almost, though; D’Artagnan wasn’t insane.

He had just begun to consider taking off his boots and leathers when he heard his bedroom door open, and someone step in. It was a testament to how tired he was that he couldn’t even be bothered to turn his head and confirm who it was.

Thankfully, the room’s extra occupant spoke and broke all sense of mystery.

“You may be able to tell,” Aramis said, “that I am both angry with and disappointed in you. Porthos fought harder to be a Musketeer than anyone else. This means more to him than it _ever_ could to you. He is not only one of the three - or rather _two_ , today - most honourable men I know but he is, if I can have such a thing, my best friend. And I can tell you for a _fact_ that he would never - _never_ \- do anything that would jeopardise his position in this guard. Do you understand that?”

D’Artagnan could feel his face heat up in embarrassment and shame, but he was at least brave enough to fight exhaustion, sit up and face Aramis. He knew Aramis could see the flush across his cheeks, but there was no change in his disposition; hard-gazing, his lips pursed into a thin line.

He hadn’t even taken off his hat, and he was indoors.

D’Artagnan dropped his gaze to the floor, hunching forward and generally just avoiding Aramis’ piercing stare. He thought it best to say nothing; his rash words were, after all, what had gotten him into this situation.

He waited for the rebuke to continue; there were no words, merely Aramis coming to sit next to him on the bed, finally removing his hat and placing it on the side table.

There were a few more moments of silence before Aramis seemed to deflate, flopping back so that he was staring at the ceiling.

D’Artagnan risked glancing at the man next to him, and found that gaze returned.

“I...” D’Artagnan began quietly, but Aramis shook his head.

“He might not know what you said,” he interrupted, “but for the sake of your own honour, and your friendship with him, you might consider telling him.”

“It...it was only a moment,” D’Artagnan shrugged. “Just a question...”

“There should _be_ no question,” Aramis hissed, sitting up and grabbing D’Artagnan by the shoulders. “If you find yourself able to question one of your brothers now, in relative safety? Then we can’t trust you out in battle, should we ever need to go. How can you not understand that?!”

D’Artagnan felt his face heat up even more; he was only making this worse by questioning things further rather than swallowing his pride and allowing Porthos the honour that these past two days had denied him.

“Sh-should I go now? Perhaps sooner, rather than later...” he said, trying to get up; Aramis held firm.

“He’s asleep, you idiot,” Aramis chided. “It’s after midnight. You can beg for forgiveness tomorrow.”

At this, Aramis appeared to be getting ready for bed. In D’Artagnan’s room. With D’Artagnan there.

“...You’re not going to your room?” D’Artagnan asked.

“Well, unless you can muster up the energy to cross the hall, then no,” Aramis replied, now undressed to only his shirt, and climbing under the blankets.

“But you’re...angry at me?” D’Artagnan tried again.

“Yes,” Aramis replied as if talking to a rather unintelligent child, “but I am also tired. Are you getting in? I want to sleep.”

He looked at D’Artagnan expectantly, even going so far as to lift the blankets as an invitation when D’Artagnan didn’t take the hint.

“I am very confused by this turn of events,” D’Artagnan said, after a pause. “If you’re angry at me, then...why are you here?”

Aramis let out a long and enduring sigh, letting the blankets drop once more as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“D’Artagnan,” he said, “you’re an idiot, but you’re not evil. You have resolved to fix the situation at the earliest possible opportunity, and so whilst I may be experiencing residual anger that you doubted Porthos in the first place, we no longer have a problem. This means, therefore, that I would like to sleep and I would like you beside me whilst I do so. Now I am _very_ tired, so please just _get into bed_.”

And, well, D’Artagnan just could not argue with that logic; he started to shuck off his clothes, finding that Aramis helped him when he got stuck due to tiredness. Soon, he was in a similar state of undress to his bed partner, and he used the last of his energy to lift the blankets and lie down, not even bothering to cover himself properly. Aramis, however, was there once more, making sure that D’Artagnan was covered and warm before pulling him close.

“Why,” D’Artagnan asked around a loud yawn, “do I always end up with my face squashed against your chest? I get it, you’ve got muscles.”

“Would you rather it was the other way around?” Aramis asked, chuckling and shuffling them so that it was Aramis’ head resting on D’Artagnan.

At this, D’Artagnan remembered something.

“Speaking of the other way around...?”

“Not tonight,” Aramis replied. “And maybe not tomorrow. Depends when Porthos forgives you. When he does, then we’ll talk.”

“When?” D’Artagnan asked.

“Of _course_ he’ll forgive you, idiot,” Aramis said. “I’ll make sure of that. If he doesn’t forgive you, you’d probably have to leave - no dissention in the ranks, and he has seniority. If you left, I’d mope. Maybe not to Athos’ levels, but it would be pretty serious. Might last at least two days.”

D’Artagnan snorted in amusement, his eyes closing. He felt Aramis shift up the bed and plant a kiss on his cheek, before pushing the hair out of his face. It was with Aramis’ hands in his hair that D’Artagnan slipped further into sleep, only just hearing Aramis mumbling something.

“I’d miss you, if you left,” Aramis whispered.

D’Artagnan was already snoring.

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, [Tumblr](http://tommisonspubictopiary.tumblr.com/).


End file.
